Accepting the Self
by Meggletron
Summary: Subject Delta is gifted with that most Big Daddies have never known; a conscience. Now Delta is faced with a series of events they never could have predicted. The plan has gone to hell, and Delta is forced to make a decision that could jeopardize their own chances of survival, and with them Eleanor's only chance of seeing the sun.


"Don't you recognise Sinclair, Delta?" _No. _"He is what _you_ should have been. One _final Alpha Series_." Lamb continues speaking, but the words don't breach the helmet. His name swims through my head, a blur, _a daze_. Suddenly, it holds new meaning, as if this is our first encounter. His breathing is heavy. He has little strength, though I know it _is_ growing, faster by the minute. Soon he will be an equal match for me. But not yet. Now he hangs limp against the glass, key clamped in his free hand. Helpless. _I remember the feeling well_. Eleanor speaks now, and where her mother grates, Eleanor soothes. But for the first time her words bring no comfort. Quiet the contrary, as what she says confirms it. Sinclair is gone, and _I_ have to follow him. For a split second I remain still, but another pulse of pain jolts my body to life, and I am forced to move. They have been increasing in frequency and intensity since Eleanor's brief death, and my own longevity is called into question. But I refuse to die. Not before Eleanor sees the sun. Not before I get her _out_. I make for the door, ready to-  
"_Kid._"  
Then I stop again.

"_Lamb's_ in my head." It's his voice. Thin, rasping, but undeniably _his_. "I can't help myself- Have t'fight just to talk." I feel as though I should be angry. Angry at Lamb, angry with Rapture, angry at _myself_ for letting something like this happen. But I can't. All I feel is a rising, bubbling sense of _hope_. He continues, and I cling to every word, following after him with a new found surge of energy. "Left me my_god damn tongue_to torture- torture those bomb codes outta me. Wants me to stop you leavin'... _I'm sorry._" And it is _**now**_ I find my anger. Splicer cries fall deaf on my ears, bullets patter on the far wall like raindrops on a roof, and through it all I walk forward, the same, shaking, repentant '_sorry_' drifting through my conscience. He has so little to be sorry about, I have already forgiven him. Eleanor has already forgiven him. We are a _family_ now. The true sense of the word; not the faux claim that the tyrant clings to in an effort to clear her guilt. She should be apologising. Not him.  
A Brute smashes through a wall, followed by another small group. I allow him his charge, smashing against some solid obstacle and grunting in pain. I cannot help but wish I could scream. Now he's close, I'm able to get a good hold on him with my drill, and use him as a shield. With a sickening irony, the splicers behind finish off their comrade in an attempt to reach me, and this is their downfall. Whilst tearing loose with Plasmid after Plasmid, I cannot help but recall Lamb's verbose speech; '_Reject the Self_', and '_Embrace the Family_'. If those splicers knew the meaning of "family", they may have been able to beat me. I revel in sick pleasure as I realise all Lamb's preaching was for nought. _Not one sad, sorry soul in Rapture knows the true meaning of family_. Except me. Except Eleanor. Except _Sinclair_. I reach a larger hall, and the doors shut behind me. Sealed.

"K-Kid. I'm sorry. I... I've locked you in here." He continues as if he'd never stopped talking. Somewhere inside of me I wish he hadn't. Even his hoarse drawl is worse than silence. "Lamb's makin' me dance on her god damn strings. You're gonna have to... To break in here, an'... _An' put me down._" I search around for the source, hearing the voice in my helmet as fractured as it must in his. He is gaining control of his speech, there are less pauses, and stuttering is practically non-existent. But _something else_ lines his voice. Something stronger than physical pain. "I wish there was another way. But I'd rather _die a man_ than live _like this_." As I move to search for his location, each joint creaks. Every piston emits a low hiss, my chains clink against one another, and my boots crash against the ground with every, great, lumbering step. So why is it the heart makes no sound when it breaks? I hear a faint knocking on a window above, and he is there. His hand is pressed against the glass, and I _crave_ to touch it. To _hold_ it. In that moment, against every emotion surging through my mind, reason wins out. I know Sinclair is right. My role has changed - I am no longer a protector. I am an _executioner_.

My mind is no longer clouded as I start my search for the code to the door. Now I'm so close to the end, everything is different. Where mould and rust is a granted throughout Rapture, now it sticks out like a sore thumb. Stagnant toilet-water runs through the corridors, barnacles cling to every surface, and the rust gleams a dull bronze in the blinking, yellow light. _It is disgusting_. I wonder what it smells like, what it_feels_ like to experience Rapture outside of a suit. I remember nothing beyond protecting Eleanor, but now I long for a life. I want to see the surface, feel the wind on my face... If I even have a face. I don't care for a voice, just a family, just a taste of how life _could_ be. But would it taste so sweet, with a death in the family staining my tongue? As if answering my question, Sinclair speaks again. His voice is a welcome comfort in the dark and dingy bathrooms. "Son. I built this place, an'- an' I _did_ rent you out to those plasmid trials." The stuttering has made a come back, but remorse holds his voice now, not physical ineptitude. "An' now... _Now I'm payin' for it_." I object. For the first time outside of battle, I vocalise, groaning in pain.  
"Now son, don't be like that..." He replies, still connected to me via radio.  
Again, I moan, frustrated beyond belief that I lack the capacity to tell him how I _truly_ feel.  
"I wish I had time to make amends... T-Take the lifeboat, it's all yours!"  
Doesn't he understand it's meaningless without him?  
"Just... Don't _leave_ me like _this_."

Suddenly, I begin to doubt once more. The plea hits home, and I know I _can't_ leave him as he is. It would be inhumane to have him suffer the same fate as me, and I know it. But surely, there _has _to be another way... Lamb resumes her drone in the background, telling me of "free will" and "selflessness", but I no longer care to listen. It is only when I hear his name that I pause. "Sinclair has no such choice." She says, "Yet in it's absence, _he serves the world unerringly_.". I track back, wanting, _needing_ to see that he's still there; that Lamb isn't forcing him to perform one final, _cruel_ dance in her name. It is then that I see the vent. Memories flash through my mind, using vents to access closed off areas. While this is no little-sister's vent, it is one that I could fit into... Perhaps, just _maybe_, I can reach him.

I make for the shaft, eyes fixed on the entrance, batting away any stray splicers that dare cross my path with the drill. Sinclair sees me enter the vent, mumbles something about "getting the drop on him", but I'm already crawling inside, and the echo of metal-on-metal makes his voice too hard to hear. I reach the end, pocketing a stray medical kit and standing upright. There's just enough space to squirm in, and a gap in front no bigger than my helmet. The edges of the gap are lined with rusted metal and cracks; presumably where a grate used to live. My sight drifts to the few pipes which hang from the walls, none connecting anything other than dead air. I return to the gap, aware there's no way I'd fit through But for now, it's enough. Once more I vocalise, though this time only to make myself known. _Omega_ turns, still grasping the key. "K-Kid, go on. Shoot me, _now._" He ambles closer, and I rush to think of something, anything which could- Wait...

_Wait-!  
_  
And with that, I have it! I know what it is I need to do. I am overwhelmed with relief as I realise I needn't be an executioner - I was _never _an executioner. I am, and always will be the Knight in Shining Armour. I am Subject Delta; not only a protector, but _a saviour_, and that starts with Sinclair. I see his free hand shake as he desperately wills his fingers away from the trigger, yet in response I drop my own. I don't need it. I shake now, too, but this time in _anticipation, _raising my hand to my chest. Bolt after bolt is loosened with quickening pace as Sinclair grows near, his silence a bad omen. However, still I persist. With a hiss, the pressure is released, and for the first time in forever I _taste the air._ The helmet crashes to the floor, and nerves shapes my face. My expression is alien, pressed against the cold air. I don't know what Sinclair sees, but it is enough to shock the psychological conditioning Lamb has _rushed _in efforts to thwart me. He freezes, and drops the gun. In a single, swift motion I raise a boot and bring it down on the cracks lining the gap, and the wall caves in. I collapse on Sinclair, using the weight of my body to keep him down. He writhes and squirms, but shouts "_now, kid, now!_", believing me to be granting his final wish. I do no such thing. I grope at the back of his suit, undoing clasps and unzipping him. With a mighty tug, I _free_ Sinclair, wrenching him out of the diver's prison. His skin is yellowing, eyes dim, and still he protests with slaps and kicks, but none of them are as forceful outside of the suit. Again I pin him to the floor, all _too _conscious of the way he stares at my... My 'face'. I remember one of his earlier speeches, of '_contingency plans_', in case of emergency. I believe this situation qualifies as such.  
"Kid, _whad're you doin_'?" He gasps. I savour the sound. It's different, up close. So much smoother without the grain of the radio...  
It is then I do something I have not done in _years._  
"S- _Sa...ve_."  
I speak.  
I feel my eyes widen as much as his, and even Eleanor gasps in shock the other side of our communicator. I pause, finally clasping my hands around the genetic key Sinclair _always_ kept on his person, in his front pockets. Blinking, I look him in the eyes. He looks at me, mouth wide in surprise. So taken aback by my own developments, I fail to notice the hand snaking towards the gun and _squeezing the trigger._

At first I feel as if I've been punched. The wind is blown from my body, and I fall back, gaze met with the smoking barrel of the shotgun. Sinclair cries out, tears staining his cheeks as I collapse, the sensation changing to a red-hot poker lingering in the wound. True to her word, Lamb ensured that Sinclair was properly equipped to take me down. As crimson stains my suit, I crawl toward Sinclair, first tenderly wiping the tears from his cheek, then wrestling him to the ground, dropping the key for precious seconds to take the still-warm gun and point it to his chest. He shakes in anger, horrified, eyes still fixed on _me._  
"I-I'm sorry..." He chokes, gripping my wrist. "I didn't want t- you should have... Have _killed me_ when you had the chance-..."  
I press a finger to his lips and fire.  
I want to cry. Why I don't - I do not know. Perhaps I know I still have a job to do. Perhaps, I simply _can't_. Perhaps a guardian has no room for tears. All I know is the pain. Dragging myself to the door, I rise, leaving Sinclair's smoking corpse behind me. The door opens with a creek, and seven pairs of eyes meet me, each splicer sporting the Devil's own grin. With my last Eve reserves, I summon Eleanor to my side. She pauses to glance at Sinclair, then as always, puts my safety beyond her feelings and opens fire. Amidst the chaos, I apply the bandages I found in the vent to my wound. They do little, but I know I need all my strength. I lumber onwards, eyes fixed to a glowing light at the end of the corridor. _So close..._

Knowing his wish was to die, I collapse at the Vita-Chamber, brandishing the genetic key. With all Lamb's talk of the 'abandoning the self', I find myself awash with glee as I come to terms with what I am doing. I am being selfish- I am _accepting the self. _With one last push, I hold myself upright long enough to insert the key into the slot, waiting patiently as the device whirs to life, flashing and popping, electricity buzzing through the air. For a few brief moments, my eyes close. The dark is warm, and enticing, but I know it is not my place. Not yet. The noises stop, and I open my eyes. Vision blurred, a figure crouches over me, sinking to his knees. He cups my face in his hand, and finally his expression is close enough to see. He is handsome, with dark hair slicked back over his skull. His lips are thick, and his eyes are a kind brown; like the those belonging to deer, back on the surface. He smiles, and all the pain accounts to nought in his radiant gaze.

"Long time no see, _Sport_."


End file.
